


True Intensity

by Ganymedean



Category: The Mayor of Casterbridge
Genre: Canon, M/M, Thomas Hardy - Freeform, Victorian Literature, Wessex - Freeform, Wessex Novels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-06-24 10:24:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15628677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ganymedean/pseuds/Ganymedean
Summary: Henchard hadn't felt such a connection before in his life. It was strange, then, how quickly this feeling had bloomed for a complete stranger; and it was utterly cruel how this man could never feel the same way for him.A story taking place within the canon of novel, exploring homoerotic feelings on Henchard's part for Farfrae.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based in the canon, so it is going to use dialogue from the novel. However, the interpretation and description of these scenes is my own, made to fit the homoerotic perspective. I will be doing my best to keep my writing style consistent to Hardy's.

Michael Henchard found himself watching the stranger with intense fascination. It was much his own curiosity; certainly the note which had been delivered to him was one of great interest to him. But there was also something beautiful about that kind, earnest face, dimly lit by the candle on the table. He stepped cautiously into the room. Despite objective sensibilities telling him otherwise, Henchard feared that he was intruding by doing so. He coughed awkwardly, not being able to find the proper words to address the seated man.

The stranger looked up. “Ah—yes?” There was a yet unfinished meal in front of him, and he absent-mindedly picked at a piece of ham with an old, rusted fork. “Do you call upon me, sir?” His voice, unmistakably Scottish, soft and unassuming, awakened strange sympathies and embarrassments within Henchard.

He nodded. “I merely strolled in on my way home to ask you a question about something that has excited my curiosity.” He felt as it he spoke too freely and familiarly already, and determined to restrain himself. Quickly, he added, “But I see you have not finished supper.” He had already begun to step back out of the room.

“Ay, but I will be done in a little!” said the Scotchman, hurriedly gesturing for him to stay. “Ye needn't go, sir. Take a seat. I've almost done, and it makes no difference at all.” Henchard shuffled forward, taking the seat offered, and remained silent yet another moment before speaking. An unwanted blush rose on his cheeks. He turned his gaze downwards until it had passed.

“Well, first I should ask, did you write this?” He withdrew from his pocket the note which had been handed to him earlier in the evening. Logic told him that this was no doubt the man; the waiter had directed him to this exact hotel, and his description matched the young Scotchman before him. Henchard, however, was still determined to be as careful as possible in his conversation. He did not want to be too forward, too assuming.

The stranger glanced at the note in a manner that signified his recognition. “Yes, I did.”

“Then I am under the impression that we have met by accident while waiting for the morning to keep an appointment with each other?” Though he proposed this, Henchard was under no such impression. The question was an impulse, one brought about by the fact that—despite having come here merely on matters pertaining to his own business—some part of Henchard sought to converse with, and be in the presence of, this man for as long as possible. “My name is Henchard; ha’n’t you replied to an advertisement for a corn-factor’s manager that I put into the paper—ha’n’t you come here to see me about it?”

“No,” said the stranger. There was some surprise in his voice, and Henchard immediately felt that he had only succeeded in making himself seen a fool. Still, he could not admit his pretense now.

“Surely you are the man,” he insisted, “arranged to come and see me? Joshua, Joshua, Jipp—Jopp—what was his name?” He stared at the stranger as if scrutinizing him for some familiarity.

“You're wrong!” The young man leaned away as if taken aback, and Henchard felt stung by his tone of voice. “My name is Donald Farfrae. It is true I am in the corren trade—but I have replied to no advertisement, and arranged to see no one. I am on my way to Bristol—from there to the other side of the warrld to try my fortune in the great wheat-growing districts of the West! I have some inventions useful to the trade, and there is no scope for developing them heere.”

Henchard felt his throat close up at this. This Farfrae, so wonderful in the warm candlelight, was only to pass through his life with the temporary manner of a butterfly, gone as soon as it arrives, leaving a void in the wake. He barely knew Farfrae, but was so inexplicably drawn to him. That Fate, if it truly existed, seemed to think this a joke, was utterly cruel to Henchard. He forced himself to speak.

“To America—well, well. And yet I could have sworn you were the man!” The discontent in his voice was obvious, permeating the air around the room, hanging heavy like a thick black fog. Henchard cursed himself.

“No,” murmured Farfrae, and Henchard averted his eyes. He did not want to become more enchanted with such a face as would be gone so soon. Once again, he found himself struggling to find the right words to say. A quiet moment passed. Henchard dared not glance at the Scotchman— _ just a stranger!  _ he told himself—for fear that this feeling he inspired would only become stronger.

Finally, he continued: “Then I am truly and sincerely obliged to you for the few words you wrote on that paper.” He tilted his head downwards in a sign of deference, though he was older and the Mayor of the town.

“It was nothing, sir.” Again, Henchard found himself so taken by the younger man's kind, humble voice. It had nothing of the business-like qualities he had grown accustomed to in his life of strictly impersonal interactions. How he longed to hear more of that tone!

“Well,” he replied, “it has a great importance for me just now. This row about my grown wheat, which I declare to Heaven I didn't know to be bad till the people came complaining, has put me to my wits’ end. I've some hundreds of quarters of it on hand; and if your renovating process will make it wholesome, why, you can see what a quag 'twould get me out of. I saw in a moment there might be truth in it. But I should like to have it proved; and of course you don't care to tell me the steps of the process sufficiently for me to do that, without my paying ye well for’t first.” He spoke all in a big rush, overwhelmed by the effect that had been brought out on him by this unknowing man. Unable to resist, Henchard looked up at Farfrae's face to watch his reaction.

Farfrae himself was in the act of thinking. His upper lip twitched, as if he were about to speak, then went still again. He drew a sip of the ale that had been brought up for his dinner.  “I don't know that I have any objection,” he said as he put the ale back down. Henchard watched his bright eyes. “I'm going to another country, and curing bad corn is not the line I'll take up there. Yes, I'll tell ye the whole of it—you’ll make more of it heere than I will in a foreign country. Just look here a minute, sir. I can show ye by a sample in my carpet-bag.”

Farfrae grabbed the floral-patterned carpet-bag which had been sitting beside him and deftly unlocked it with his slim fingers. Even to this movement, Henchard noticed, there was a gracefulness which only made the Scotchman more attractive. But no; he could not do anything about it. Farfrae's hand continued to move as he pulled out some supplies and a small amount of grain.

“It's really quite simple,” Farfrae explained. “Listen.” And Henchard did, as the young man easily and confidently discussed the whole process. Even now, those words were like music. He hung onto each sentence as if it were a lyrical phrase in an operatic masterpiece.

“These few grains will be sufficient to show ye with,” the younger man continued.  _ What ease!— _ Henchard thought, as the process was demonstrated— _ what ease with which he goes about this!  _ The apparent skill of Donald Farfrae interested him far more than he cared to admit. “There, now you do taste that.”

Henchard did. “It's complete!—quite restored, or—well—nearly.” Farfrae was a man if his word, and clearly quite intelligent—the restoration was admirable.

“Quite restored enough to make good seconds of it. To fetch it back entirely is impossible; Nature won't stand so much as that, but here you go a great way towards it. Well, sir that's the process; I don't value it, for it can be but of little use in countries where the weather is more settled than ours; and I'll only be too glad if it's of service to you.” This man was too much for Henchard to lose, to allow to slip through his fingers. That he asked nothing in return spoke to an unmistakable purity of intentions that was infinitely admirable.

“But hearken to me–” Henchard was pleading, his voice barely under control; his eyes, too afraid to meet Farfrae's as he made this request, travelled over his fine and well-trimmed hair– “My business, you know, is in corn and hay, but I was brought up as a hay-trusser simply, and hay is what I understand best though now I do more in corn than in the other. If you'll accept the situation, you'll manage the corn branch entirely, and receive a commission in addition to salary.” It was far beyond reasonable expectation that Farfrae would accept this; but Henchard hoped anyways, desperate for that true connection which he lacked.

“You're liberal—very liberal, but no, no—I cannet!” Farfrae spoke rapidly, and with the higher pitch of something one is strained to say. Henchard frowned, before quickly forcing a more neutral expression. Was the Scotchman’s distress because the offer was too forward, and alarmed him, or was it because he truly regretted being unable to accept it?

“So be it!” Henchard moved past, acting untroubled by the rejection, though he felt as if fatally wounded. “Now—to change the subject—one good turn deserves another; don't stay to finish that miserable supper. Come to my house, I can find something better for ye than cold ham and ale.” It was another impulsive statement, and he found himself regretting the words as they slipped off his tongue. If he had not betrayed his admiration of Farfrae before, he feared that he did so now. It was foolish.

“Ah!—I’m very grateful for yer generosity, sir. But I fear that I must decline; I wish to leave early the next day, so as to get to Bristol as soon as can be.” Henchard had known that this was coming, but the words still stung as bitterly as if they were venomous and unexpected.  _ Fool!  _ he thought to himself.  _ To even dare hope that this man would take an affectionate view me. _ The dread that had been growing since he made the offer had grown to cover his entire body in its coldness, and he forced himself not to shiver.

“Very well, please yourself.” He spoke quickly, wanting to forget what had been said. “But I tell you, young man, if this holds good for the bulk, as it has done for the sample, you have saved my credit, stranger though you be. What shall I pay you for this knowledge?”

“Nothing at all, nothing at all,” Farfrae said. Henchard found himself deeply moved. To salvage his reputation, and expect nothing in return! It was a sincerity of care that he craved, and was agonized to see apart from him. Farfrae went on: “It may not prove necessary to ye to use it often, and I don't value it at all. I thought I might just as well let ye know, as you were in a difficulty, and they were harrd upon ye.”

The trueness of good intentions shown to him put Henchard at a momentary loss for words. “I sha’n’t soon forget this. And from a stranger!…” Yes, a stranger Farfrae was, and that was all he was to be! “I couldn't believe you were not  the man I had engaged! Says I to myself, 'He knows who I am, and recommends himself by this stroke.’ and yet it turns out, after all, that you are not the man who answered my advertisement, but a stranger!” The word stung each time it was on his lips, burning like acid. He was never to know this man better!

“Ay, ay; that's so.”

Henchard thought, selecting his words carefully before he spoke again. He felt that he had been too enthusiastic in his conversation; he now sought to make a reasonable excuse for this. “Your forehead, Farfrae, is something like my poor brother's—now dead and gone; and the nose too, isn't unlike his. You must be, what—five foot nine, I reckon? I am six foot one and a half out of my shoes. But what of that? In my business, 'tis true that strength and bustle build up a firm. But judgment and knowledge are what keep it established. Unluckily, I am bad at science, Farfrae; bad at figures—a rule o’ thumb sort of man. You are just the reverse—I can see that. I have been looking for such as you these two year, and yet you are not for me. Well, before I go, let me ask this: Though you are not the young man I thought you were, what's the difference? Can't ye stay just the same? Have you really made up your mind about this American notion? I won't mince matters. I feel you would be invaluable to me—that needn't be said—and if you will stay and be my manager I will make it worth your while.” Having made the comment about Farfrae's resemblance to his brother, Henchard felt far more secure in his proposal—though not yet secure enough to say just how invaluable his presence would truly be.

Donald Farfrae shook his head, though he looked gently upon Michael Henchard. “My plans are fixed. I have formed a scheme, and we need na say more about it. But will you not drink with me, sir? I find this Casterbridge ale warreming to the stomach.”

Henchard felt his pulse throbbing in his head, pained that he could not accept. “No, no; I fain would, but I can't.” He stood up, pushing his chair in as he moved slowly to the door, keeping his eyes on Farfrae all the same. “When I was a young man I went in for that sort of thing too strong—far too strong—and was well-nigh ruined by it! I did a deed on account of it which I shall be ashamed of to my dying day. It made such an impression on me that I swore, there and then, that I'd drink nothing stronger than tea for as many years as I was old that day. I have kept my oath; and though, Farfrae, I am sometimes that dry in the dog days that I could drink a quarter-barrel to the pitching, I think o’ my oath, and touch no strong drink at all.” Though he felt as if Farfrae were the type of man in whom he could confide, and though he desperately wished to do so, shame kept him from disclosing the event that had caused him to swear off of drinking.

“I'll no' press ye, sir—I'll no' press ye. I respect your vow.”

Henchard nodded, having stopped moving towards the door many words ago. “Well, I shall get a manager somewhere, no doubt. But it will be long before I see one that would suit me so well!” His voice was breaking, despite his efforts, and he turned with finality towards the hallway.

Farfrae rose to accompany him to the door, and did not speak until they reached it. “I wish I could stay—sincerely I would like to. But no—it cannet be! it cannet! I want to see the warrld.”

Henchard stepped out and did not look back. Farfrae could not realize how those words, warmly meant, only hurt him more. His whole life he had wanted for a true connection with someone else, having caused so much pain to those for whom he could not feel it. Then, to finally find someone only to know that he was just a passing person in his life—it was too much to bear!

He walked home as quickly as he could, only holding himself back from a run because he feared that it would seem undignified. The sooner he could be alone, the sooner he could grieve his solitude.


	2. Chapter 2

Michael Henchard paused halfway home. He knew it was foolish, but he could not resist it; he turned back and went once again in the direction of the Three Mariners, that inn where he had found Donald Farfrae. “‘Tis but a promenade!” he whispered to nobody, as if to justify his actions. High Street was empty—most had already gone to home, or were linering to get one last drink. He had, perhaps, been walking home a bit more slowly than he had cared to admit to himself.

As he passed by the inn once again, something overtook him. Some new sound; what was it? It was music, although the song was unfamiliar to him. He paused, listening and casting a curious to the windows of the establishment. They were shuttered; but in the wood that covered them lay heart-shaped holes through which the sound drifted and through which he could look. From this distance, he could not see well enough; so he moved closer.

Finally, he managed to see the source of the music that had touched him so. It was that young Donald Farfrae, singing a song from his Scottish homeland—and how beautifully he sung! Henchard felt as if he could become ensnared by words and thus rooted in that place forever just to hear the lad’s voice.

“To be sure, to be sure, how that fellow does draw me!” he whispered, then caught himself. If someone should overhear him, he did not know what they would think; and so, he explained to the air in another whisper: “I suppose 'tis because I'm so lonely. I'd have given him a third share in the business to have stayed!” Although nobody watched him, it was as if he felt the glares of thousands of eyes upon the back of his neck. Reluctantly, therefore, he forced his feet to turn and carry him away as if the stop had been nothing more than an ordinary pause in which to catch his breath before continuing on his promenade. He would have liked to have entered that inn again, if but to listen to the entire song of that young man, but alas! It would have been out of place.

Up and down High Street he briskly walked, passing by the Three Mariners many times, making only brief stops now and then to hear this Scottish music. It caused great sentiment in him, inspiring a romantic view of a land in which he had never lived.

“The lark shall sing me hame to my ain countree!”

Those were the last words he heard sung. It seemed as if the singer, too, that young Scotchman, was filled with such a romantic notion, although Henchard knew, all too painfully, that he really wished to leave quite far away.

Then there was no more music. Henchard stood still, a few buildings down from the inn, but heard no more from the young man. He almost turned to look back, but forced himself to move on ahead. With a dragging step, he finally made his way home.

Henchard did not sleep that night.

He didn’t know why this young man—Donald, he said his name was—awakened such strange feelings in him, only that he had never before felt so deeply for one he knew so little. The yearning—to befriend this man, to spend his days with him, to know him—tugged at his mind, reminding him of a distant past he had once decidedly forgotten.

Henchard remembered his youth, as a young boy of eleven, and the deep friendship he’d had and then ruined. What was that other boy’s name? He had had it engraved so deeply within his mind at one point; surely, it could not have been erased by all of his efforts. He searched through his memories of summer days spent rambling among the country hills for a hint, any hint. Ah, yes! William. William Fitzsimmons. He smiled sadly at the memory. He saw nothing in the darkness, but in his mind he replayed images of that one hot day in June that had left him broken for months.

 

“Will!” young Michael Henchard called, chasing after his childhood companion recklessly, scraping his legs on the thorns that stood in his path. “Wait up!”

“Don’t be so slow, then!” Will shouted back, laughing. Still, he paused, underneath the beams of a large oak tree. Sunlight filtered through in a beam right where he stood, and it seemed to Henchard as is he were glowing. Is this what the angel frescoes at the nearby church were meant to look like? Surely so, he thought to himself. Will tossed his golden hair playfully and then took off again. The moment was gone.

This continued the better half of an hour, until Michael, panting, finally caught up with his friend. He leapt at Will and tackled him, and they both fell laughing on the soft green grass. “I’ve got the better of ye now, Will!” Michael said, a playful grin on his face. 

Will rolled his eyes and turned face-up towards the sky. “Took ye long enough.”

“Still, I did it.” Neither of them spoke for a while, and William gazed at the sky and Henchard gazed at—William. There was something about the other boy’s face that was irresistible to Michael. It inspired the highest feelings in him, the deepest feelings. He frowned to think of this. He didn’t feel this way about any other friend. Yet it was strangely similar to how he had always he heard others speak of love. Could it be? He had never heard of any love like this before. His parents and his teachers had always told him of affection between male and female, never between two of the same sex. Nevertheless, he wanted to devote himself to William. If they could grow old together, like husband and wife, it would be a happy and fulfilling life.

He watched the wind blow his friend’s curly blond hair softly, watched his eyes tracing casually the clouds that passed by in the sky above. There was something immeasurably beautiful to him about William; it was something indescribably enchanting. Maybe one day they could have a life together just like the happy life his parents lived. He felt so unsure of himself; he was, as far as he knew, the only one who felt this way. Maybe, though, he wondered to himself, maybe William felt the same way about him.

“Will?” He asked, his voice plainly nervous.

“Yes, Mike?” His friend turned to him, striking him with those green eyes.

“William, I need to tell you something. I…” words failed him in that moment. He reached out and took his friend’s hand in his. It was so warm! He moved closer to the other boy, pressing his own lips to William’s in a hesitant kiss.

“Don’t!” William shouted, pushing Michael roughly from him. “What are you–”

“I thought–” Michael froze. He knew that nothing he said could save him.

“Whatever you thought, you thought wrong! You're disgusting!” William shoved him hard against the ground and ran off without a glance back. “Stay away from me!”

“Will, wait!” He ran after his friend, but William was not playing this time. There would be no more ironic smiles as he waited for the other. Michael breathed as deeply as he could while running and made a desperate plea: “I thought we could fall in love! Like we were always taught, only it would be just us, and no woman! Will, please! I'm sorry!”

There was no response of his friend's—friend no longer!—but the ever more receding footsteps as he left Michael behind and alone.

Realizing how hopeless it was, the young Henchard sank to the ground and put his head in his hands. He knew that the sun was sinking in the sky, but he didn't care to watch the sunset. He only sobbed alone under the same tree where William had stopped earlier, tormented by the memories to which no more recollections would henceforth be added. Michael cursed himself. How like a girl! he thought. It was a ridiculous thought; he was, after all, a boy just as much as any other was. But he didn't understand why else he could be so upset over this other boy. Men didn't go off to fight wars for other men, but for women. They didn't cry over lost friends. That was what he told himself, as it was what the world had told him.

Only when darkness fell on him did he finally return home. When he did, he looked so downtrodden, and carried himself so low, that even his father, who had been prepared to sternly admonish him, said not a word to young Michael Henchard as he dragged himself into his room for his first sleepless night.

 

Could that old strain in him be resurfacing? He pleaded with himself that it not be true. But—he had tried to defeat it then, and it had failed. Still more buried memories resurfaced, now of his days as a young adult, before he had originally gotten married. He pushed them out of this mind. They were too painful to be thought of. No; he would not allow himself to succumb to such a thing again.

The night had passed, and it was now morning. He could hardly think straight, hardly drag his body out of the bed where he had been awake all night, but he forced himself to it. He had, after all, to try again to recruit this Farfrae to work with him. It was not a product of his affection that drove him to this—after all, he felt no affection, he assured himself—but merely a business concern. If the lad still would not accept his offer, then so be it! He could find some other partner in business, and life would carry on as before.

He sluggishly got dressed, but yet, in his haze of exhaustion, pushed himself to select his most appealing outfit. Every aspect of his, he knew, had to be calculated for the impression of Farfrae, that he might come round to accept Henchard’s offer.

His morning routine done, and he as polished as he could be, Michael Henchard left his home and headed down High Street as if to take a morning walk. It would not seem unusual; many did such a thing to get their nerves up before the day had truly begun.

As he made his way down High Street, birds making their morning calls, he kept glancing nervously to the window of the inn where he knew Donald Farfrae had stayed. He searched for the slightest shift or change in light to alert him to some movement in that room, that he would not disturb a sleeping man.

There! The shutters opened and the lad stuck his head out of the window to look out of the room where he had spent the night. In the light of day, his face was still more enchanting; but Hanchard, desiring not to seem too forward, looked down as if he had not seen Donald and continued on his walk. “Hallo there!” Henchard heard above him. He replied with a startled greeting, though knowing exactly to whom he now spoke. So, he was at least viewed favorable enough by Farfrae for this small pittance of kindness! He looked up and turning to face him with a practiced look of surprise on his visage. Henchard stepped back now, a few paces, as Farfrae, having spied him and shouted for his attentions, opened the window further.

“You are the one with whom I spoke last night, yes?” the younger man asked, smiling down on him with perfect politeness. Henchard nodded.

His heart pounded more than he had intended it to. It was just nervousness, he reassured himself, over the future of his business. It was natural to be so anxious over something so personal to one’s own finances and success. He forced himself to a casual appearance despite this. “And you are off soon, I suppose?” he inquired, as if it were a matter of no importance to him whatsoever.

Farfrae replied, “Yes—almost this moment, sir. Maybe I'll walk on till the coach makes up on me.” So soon, then! Henchard shuddered. He would have very little time in which to make his case, but at least he could do so under the pretense of nothing more than a friendly walk together, if the other would assent.

“Which way?” he asked, almost careless in his demeanor.

“The way ye are going.” Henchard could not help it; his lips curled upward from joy at what he had heard, and his eyes shone as he looked up at the Scotchman.

“Then shall we walk together to the top o' town?” It was not too grand of a request, and in that time, the beauty of those surrounding fields that complemented the town, and were so romantic and pictorial, might overcome this Donald Farfrae.

“If ye'll wait a minute,” said the other, and so it was set. The older man stood there in anticipation, not knowing if the hope that he might be able to convince the Scotchman to stay were more exhilarating or more painful. Those few minutes while he stood there and waited were excruciating, until that creak of the inn door to him seemed almost as touching as the previous night’s music as it alerted him to the other’s emergence.


	3. Chapter 3

There was that bag in the young man’s hand, taunting Henchard. He stared it down as if it were some object for him to defeat. It could not make things more plain that Farfrae’s intentions were quite set upon departure. “Ah, my lad,” he said, “you should have been a wise man, and have stayed with me.” He feared that he had been to forward with this statement, but he could not remain silent and let this Farfrae simply slip from his grasp.

Donald Farfrae cast his gaze towards the distance, scrutinizing the far-away houses as if to avoid the older man’s eyes. “Yes, yes—it might have been wiser. It is only telling ye the truth when I say my plans are vague.” Vague! This gave Henchard a start. If his plans were not yet definite—not yet fully formed—then might there not be hope for him after all? Surely there must be. This must be seized upon for all that could be gained. He neutralized his face and smiled graciously as he began to walk along the street.

“Is not High Street beautiful?” Henchard remarked, gesturing towards the King’s Arms Hotel. “Truly, it is the mark of Casterbridge’s excellence.” He sought to impress upon the young man exactly how much he stood to lose by journeying for America rather than remaining in this English town.

“Aye, so it is. The people here are quite friendly, as well.”

“Indeed! One never feels unwanted among them, nor are they ever unwanted by one.” Henchard neglected to mention the ill-reputed characters who lived in Durnover; it did not suit his cause. He feared that, indeed, this young man beside him, so endeared to High Street, would be quite put off of Casterbridge if he knew what really lurked there.

“Have you always lived here, then?” Farfrae asked, with a glance that signified a desire to be polite and nothing more. Still that quick flash of the eyes meant a whole world to Henchard. “You seem quite familiar with the area.”

“Ah, no, not at all.” This was the perfect chance for Henchard. If he could claim that the place had charmed him into staying, then perhaps Farfrae could decide that he felt that same effect working upon him as well. “I came here quite impoverished as a young lad, and looking for opportunity.” He looked meaningfully at Donald, who seemed lost in thought.

“Yes? Do go on.”

Henchard smiled warmly. “This place worked its enchantments on me with its humble grace and hospitality,” he replied, pointing out such places along High Street as the wall enclosing St. Peter’s churchyard. “I decided that here I would cease my wandering and settle down to a contented life—and that is the greatest decision I have ever made, you know.” He nodded at Farfrae, and they turned right onto Bristol Road. Birds flitted in front of them, as if they sought out those two men as the audience of choice for their songs. 

Farfrae laughed at the sight. “Is such a thing common here?” He was evidently unfamiliar with just how common these sights and sounds were to the Casterbridge environment.

“Quite. We have not yet abandoned our connection to nature here in Casterbridge, unlike those other places such as London. It is, as you well see, one of our virtues.” Although he did not explicitly say so, this was a counter to the Romanticized notion of America’s yet unsullied nature; such a thing was not unique to that continent.

“Such is evident!” Said the younger man, and the two lapsed into a silence that remained unbroken for the most of their journey. On the most common matters of conversation, as dictated by convention, were touched upon; Farfrae was thoughtful, and Henchard thought it better not to seem as if pushing things, but rather to let Casterbridge’s nature advocate its own worth. They wandered through various streets, passing men and women both idle and hard at work, and occupied in various manners, which Henchard believed would serve to show the variety of Casterbridge’s greatness. In fact, not Henchard, the only thing that stuck out to him as more beautiful than the town itself was the young Farfrae’s face, soft and delicate yet exquisitely masculine and strong. His pink lips quivered as his nose took in the sensations of the surrounding air, made wonderful by the season’s blooming flowers.

They eventually came to the Chalk Walk and ascended to walk together along the town walls, Henchard leading the way but glancing just behind him every so often to ensure that he had not lost Farfrae. He would have to make his final effort soon, and do so well. The proposal necessitated nothing less than a perfect timing on Michael Henchard’s part. Chalk walk led to the intersecting corner of the North and West escarpments. From this point would be visible a great stretch of alluring countryside, dotted with the local flowers and some scampering wildlife. Down from this corner was a steep footpath leading to the road which the lad would have to follow to reach his destination. Michael Henchard paused at this intersection on the wall, as if to catch his breath. As Donald Farfrae waited for the older man, his eyes traced the pastoral scene around him, lingering fondly.

Henchard then held out his right hand to Farfrae as if to formally wish him well in his departure, though he had his own selfish reasons. There was a wicket that kept the descending path closed, and on this he leaned with his left hand. “Well, here's success to 'ee. I shall often think of this time, and of how you came at the very moment to throw a light upon my difficulty.” His remarks were sensible, but in his tone and manner he betrayed his own woundedness of attitude, as if he had fallen victim to the greatest of disappointment, something that was plainly evident to Donald Farfrae. Farfrae, earnest in his desire to return the kindness which Henchard showed in this moment, let the other clasp his hand, although he did not return the grip with which his own hand was held.

There was a pause before Henchard continued: “Now I am not the man to let a cause be lost for want of a word. And before ye are gone for ever I'll speak. Once more, will ye stay? There it is, flat and plain. You can see that it isn't all selfishness that makes me press 'ee; for my business is not quite so scientific as to require an intellect entirely out of the common. Others would do for the place without doubt. Some selfishness perhaps there is, but there is more; it isn't for me to repeat what. Come bide with me—and name your own terms. I'll agree to 'em willingly and 'ithout a word of gainsaying; for, hang it, Farfrae, I like thee well!” He watched Farfrae’s features as he said this. Farfrae himelf watched the surrounding environment. There was that beautiful countryside surrounding, and he glanced down the shaded way by which he would have to go to leave the town. That little path suddenly seemed so long, those shadows suddenly so obscurely dark that they almost seemed to be swallowing up the surrounding world in a ravenous hunger. But Casterbridge—Casterbridge, in its romance, had seduced him, and all he wanted now was but to stay and be among its people. He looked now upon Michael Henchard, and the other knew immediately that he had now succeeded. The young man would stay.

“I never expected this—I did not!” he said, and felt his cheeks burn red as he expressed his assent. “It's Providence! Should any one go against it? No; I'll not go to America; I'll stay and be your man!” He now truly clasped Henchard’s hand within his own, and Henchard felt as if that squeeze of the hand had exerted itself over his own heart, making it beat in a strange way that it never had before. He fought to restrain himself from making that same mistake which he had made with his friend William all those years ago. He must keep his desires to himself, at least for now, until sign revealed to him otherwise. 

He bit his tongue before he finally find the words to speak. “Done,” was all he said, though it was said with deep feeling behind it.

“Done,” returned Farfrae, although without that same burning sentiment. The deal was made; that was all. Farfrae did not, could not, understand why Henchard was so insistent upon this; Henchard een refused to admit his true reasons to himself, out of a consuming shame that tore at his soul. Still, Hanchard found himself violently beaming, overcome with joy at the acceptance made by this charming young man.

“Now you are my friend!” he exclaimed, in an uncontainable rush of emotions. The word friend, he knew was not accurate; it was merely a matter of business and nothing more, but he could not stop himself. Surely, if this Farfrae would assent to be a manager for his trade, would he not assent to friendship as well? It was not impossible. “Come back to my house; let's clinch it at once by clear terms, so as to be comfortable in our minds.” He waited for Farfrae to take up his floral-patterned bag, no longer so repulsive to him now that it did not represent his departure, and led the other along the North-West Avenue back towards the town. His step was self-assured; perhaps there was hope, after all. At the very least, things were not so hopeless as they had originally seemed, and that was cause for joy enough. “I am the most distant fellow in the world when I don't care for a man,” he added recklessly. “But when a man takes my fancy he takes it strong. Now I am sure you can eat another breakfast? You couldn't have eaten much so early, even if they had anything at that place to gi'e thee, which they hadn't; so come to my house and we will have a solid, staunch tuck-in, and settle terms in black-and-white if you like; though my word's my bond. I can always make a good meal in the morning. I've got a splendid cold pigeon-pie going just now. You can have some home-brewed if you want to, you know.” He did not fear revealing too much by saying this. His forwardness had not pushed the young man away yet; this statement of fondness and the following request, then, surely would not repulse him too much. He was prepared indeed to provide whatever domestic hospitality Farfrae wanted and needed. Perhaps, he speculated, he needed someone for whom he could care.

Farfrae smiled gently, but shook his head. Before he even, spoke, that simple gesture has enough to hurt Henchard to his soul. “It is too airly in the morning for that.” That sentence restored his spirits. It was not the breakfast which the young man rejected, only the drink. That was agreeable to Henchard.

“Well, of course, I didn't know,” he replied. “I don't drink it because of my oath, but I am obliged to brew for my work-people.” 

“That’s quite alright. I’m not offended. I shall breakfast with you. That seems most practical, and I thank you for your kindness.”

“Of course, of course.” They were walking back more quickly than they had walked on their way towards the path leading down from the wall, for now Henchard had no use for impressing Farfrae with the town’s beauty. Before long, they had reached the entrance of Henchard’s premises, and so they entered. Henchard led the younger man into his house, taking care that he would see the wealth with which it was endowed. It was his hope that the lad would accept an offer to stay with him there, if only for business purposes. In the meantime, there were still the terms of this handsome Farfrae’s employment to be settled, and so he must be practical.


End file.
